


Hearts in Velvet

by Raptorlily



Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Fantasy, Alternative Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-28 19:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11424918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily
Summary: In an alternate universe, Lord Archibald Andrews and Lord Forsythe "Jughead" Joenes ride for Riverdale after successfully subduing the threat of the Serpentmen in the south. Awaiting the King and his company back at the palace, Lady Elizabeth Cooper is befriended by a foreign princess, Lady Veronica Lodge. Both women are betrothed to be married, but when politics and complications of the heart intervene, all dreams of blissful couplings and fairy tale weddings quickly turn into nightmares.  Meanwhile, a political storm is gathering and the kingdom will soon learn that King Clifford's victory over the disputed territory in the Twilight lands comes at a heavy and bloody cost.Alliances will be made; others will be broken.A Royal/Fantasy/Game of Throne-y AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jandjsalmon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jandjsalmon/gifts).



> My BIG THANKS to createandconstruct for looking this over for me and is who always there for me in every capacity, and to jandjsalmon who inspired the fic, encouraged it and had it bloom :)

**Hearts In Velvet**

 

***

The King’s bannermen were at camp just outside the city walls. Banners flapped in the chill night air and fires burned in braziers. Standing on her balcony, Lady Elizabeth could see the dotted lights of torches and the cluster of red canvas spilling out almost as far Eversgreen Forest like a pool of blood.

“I don’t see why they won’t just ride into the city,” she said petulantly.  “I imagine the palace is much more comfortable than another a night spent on a woollen cot.”

Wrapping her cloak tightly around her shoulders, the young noblewoman stepped back into her bedchamber. _Her_ guest apartments alone were furnished much more lavishly than even the finest of rooms in Elmhold.

Lord Kevin looked up from where stood at her dressing table, negligently perusing through the collection of tinted bottled oils and perfumes stacked neatly on a silver tray, and slanted her a smile. Despite it being a lazy evening, out of sight of the prying, glittering eyes of court, her childhood confidant was dressed handsomely in a silver woven doublet and silken shirt of an austere blue.

“Impatient, are you?” he teased. “You’ll see him tomorrow after the king makes a proper entrance with full column and cavalcade. If the king sleeps in a tent tonight, his bannermen do too.”

“Oh, I know that.” Elizabeth dropped onto the white velvet divan, resting her cheek on top of her hands. “It’s just--I’m excited! It’s been four years since I’ve last seen him. We were only _children_ when we parted ways.”

“I hear he’s grown very handsome,” Kevin put in slyly, picking up a handheld mirror and smoothing down his hair in the hazed reflection. “And a fine jouster too. He de-horsed Lord Clayton at the tourney in Greendale last Spring.”

Elizabeth shot him a grin.  Life in the province offered little in the way of gossip and friendly diversions, and she missed Kevin dearly whenever he was at court—which was becoming a frequent occurrence, now that his father was named steward to the king.

“Good,” she said with feeling. “Lord Clayton was an arrogant and insufferable bore.”

Kevin grinned. “And, if your mother’s scheme had been halfway successful, very nearly your husband…”

“Oh hush now,” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. While every mother at court desired to make a favorable match for her children, Lady Cooper’s efforts were overzealous. There were even whispers that suggested her ambitions were precisely what drove Lady Pauline to her shameful actions.

(And coincidentally saved Elizabeth from an unhappy match).

There was a thoughtful pause as she consoled herself with the image of Lord Clayton crawling on his hands and knees in the muck to the anthem of a jeering crowd, before slanting a glance at Kevin.

“Do you think that was what inspired his victory? The thought of Lord Clayton and…?”

“Have no doubt of it, my lady,” Kevin replied smoothly. He put the mirror aside and she sat up and scooted down the divan to make room for him to sit, allowing him to take her hands into his well-manicured grasp. “Archibald loves you—he’s always loved you—and now fate has conspired to throw you together as husband and wife.”

“It’s like a dream.” She shook her head, blonde curls bouncing. “I can scarcely believe it. After everything. Father said we were _ruined_. And yes, Mother isn’t pleased with the match—of course, she isn’t, it wasn’t _her_ idea—but even she cannot argue that this is more than any of us could have ever hoped for.”

“Lady Andrews,” Kevin mused, “of the Riverdale Highlands.  You’ll have your own castle, with bannermen and servants; you will dress in all the latest fashions and sit at the head of one of the Dalelands’ most respected families. But most importantly of all…”

“…I will be with Archibald,” Elizabeth sighed gladly.

Kevin grinned. “I was about to say, ‘you will be away from your draconian mother,’ but that too is a worthy celebration.”

Elizabeth smiled at him, her eyes glowing.

Archibald had held her hand that day on the craggy bluffs overlooking the Sweetwater River. She had been so deathly frightened of heights as a young girl and she remembered feeling like her heart might crawl out of her throat as she watched the other children take turns jumping off the cliffs and into the swirling waters below.  Archibald must have sensed her discomfort. Softly, so the others would not hear, he leaned his cheek into hers and asked her not to be afraid, that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, and when Elizabeth turned her head to look at him, his red hair blazing in the late afternoon sunlight, something in his gold-flecked gaze made her believe him.

As easily as a white page flipping in the sun, the knot eased in her chest and, weaving their fingers together, they smiled and then took a running leap.

By the time the breached the surface of the water in near perfect unison, grinning and gasping for breath, Elizabeth was filled with such light and joy, convinced she could never be afraid of anything as long as Archibald was with her.  Not heights, not her mother, not even the long, creeping shadows her sister sometimes insisted were true whenever she was displeased with her.

That was the moment Elizabeth fell in love.

And now, the war in the south was over and he would be hers forever

Breathless, she let go of Kevin’s hands and stood up quickly, smoothing down her skirts.

“Oh. I cannot wait another minute! I am going to send him a message. I will ask to meet me in the gardens.”

Lord Kevin’s smiling expression dropped at once and he stood up too.

“ _Tonight_?” He tossed an anxious glance at the door, where servants stood without, waiting to be summoned. “As romantic as that sounds, if anyone catches you…”

“No one will catch us,” Elizabeth dismissed him with a wave, gliding over to the bureau and pulling out a piece of parchment and a quill. She felt animated, keenly aware of every hair and eyelash and she simply _had_ to see him, had to _do_ something, or else she feared she might burst.  “You and Ser Mason rendezvous behind the palace stables with no one the wiser. Isn’t that where you’re heading tonight after you leave me to retire?”

She paused to pointedly flicker her eyes up and down his finely clothed form.

Kevin flushed pink and threw yet another look at the door.

“Yes,” he hissed at her, moving over to stand at her elbow as she bent down to pen her words. “But we are _discrete_. And, by the simple virtue of being _male_ , we can also excuse wandering around the castle grounds at night without a chaperone.”

“Which is exactly what makes you the perfect messenger.” Elizabeth finished writing with a flourish and folded the parchment in half.  Sealing it with a press of wax, she offered it out to Kevin expectantly. “Well? Will you deliver the note or not?”

He frowned. “Elizabeth…”

She turned her large green eyes on him pleadingly, fashioning her features into the look that had always softened him when they were children, whenever she wanted him to play the lady and she, the knight.

“Please, Kevin. I will take care. I crave just a moment with him before we are swept away by the bedlam of court and wedding preparations—just a private _second_ where we can speak freely before we are married. You _know_ I’ve spent so many nights worried for him, praying for his safe return…”

Kevin took a deep breath and grudgingly snatched the letter from her hands, stuffing it into the inside lapel of his doublet. “The things I do for you,” he muttered. “Though heaven help us if your mother ever finds out about this.”

“Finds out about what?”

The double doors to the apartment fell open with a bang and Lady Alice Cooper swept into the room like a thunderstorm, two maid servants scurrying in at her heels. She was dressed elegantly in a dark brocade gown, resplendent skirts trailing behind her like an oily shadow. She paused when she reached the center of the room, whirling to look around before her cat-sharp gaze fell upon her daughter and her former fosterling.

“It’s late,” she declared imperiously. “And Lord Kevin has no business being in a lady’s chambers at this hour. We are not in Elmhold and the two of you are no longer children. You _know_ why this isn’t appropriate.”

“My apologies, Lady Cooper,” Kevin said, immediately sinking into a deep bow. “I was about to bid Lady Elizabeth a good night.”

He then turned to Elizabeth and giving a small pat to his breast pocket to indicate his promise to deliver the note, he bowed.

Then, offering both mother and daughter his wishes for a pleasant slumber and even kinder dreams, he escaped, leaving Elizabeth wishing feverently that she could go with him.

***

_All Kingdoms begin with a myth—a fairy tale of what the realm should embody, the people that live there, the clans that rule there, a story that demands a kingdom should be exactly as it presents itself to the outside world. Honorable. Decent. Virtuous.  So that if you were reading about it in the pages of a book, you might wish that you lived there; that you too, would bleed for crown and country…_

The sound of approaching footsteps and chinking metals pulled Forsythe out of his concentration. The plumed quill in his hand stilled on the page and he looked up just in time to see the canvas flap push aside as Lord Archibald Andrews trotted into their shared pavilion with all the exuberance of a young hunting dog. His red hair was pulled back into a neat queue at his nape, his chiseled but boyish face freshly shaven.

Around his shoulders, he wore a heavy blue and yellow-gold trimmed cloak—which he unclasped as soon as he dumped his sword belt and effects onto his cot with a resounding clank.

He cast a sideways glance at Forsythe as he worked on plucking off his leather gloves next, his gaze taking in the sputtering candle, the ink-well, and what must have been Forsythe’s irritated mien, and he shook his head with a grin.  

“Are you planning on staying in here the whole night?”

Forsythe’s gaze returned to the page in front of him. He had been hoping to finish at least a few pages while his words were still flowing. “If I remain undisturbed, yes.”

Archibald laughed and ambled over to the wine chest to retrieve a skein and two goblets.

“You’re worse than a monk,” he accused. “Don’t drink, don’t whore, never revel with any of the men—if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you were thinking of taking the cloth.”

“Cardinal Weatherbee would be thrilled,” Forsythe muttered and then scowled as Archibald placed the cups on the writing table with a clunk, going about the business of assembling himself a drink.  

“It wouldn’t kill you to join the men tonight,” Archibald told him. The cherry wine gurgled and slopped over the lip of the cup and Forsythe curled his arms around his papers protectively. Archibald handed him the cup and poured himself another.  “It’s our last night on the road. We will look back on these years when we are old and fat and remember them as our glory days.”

“You will remember them as the glory days,” Forsythe corrected, peering down into his cup as if it might house a miniature bog monster.  “I will remember them as eighteen hellish months on the road—at least half of which I spent in the infirmary.”

Whereas Lord Archibald Andrews was recognized as talented knight and horseman who rode in the vanguard with Lord Frederick Andrews and the other Northlords, Forsythe’s abilities on the battlefield relied less on the direct approach and more on shadow and subterfuge. He was an accomplished archer and scout in his own right, but these skills were met with suspicion rather than veneration. He may have been a Lord and a fosterling of House Andrews—and thus owed the deference befitting his title and rank—he was still from the Southlands and the son of a Noble House in exile. It didn’t matter that his father was allied with the Northmen. Southerners could not be trusted. Southerners were secretly Serpentmen, resorting to trickery and shade-work to push their way.

_A jug in the desert may have once carried water, but now it is full of snakes and sand. Is your head full of sand or Serpents, **Jughead**?_

Forsythe took a deep quaff of his wine and grimaced when the sour hit his tongue. He didn’t know what was worse. Being thought of as a weakling and poor swordsman, or being accused of being a coward and traitor, purposely sustaining his injuries to avoid killing Southern rebels.

Archibald chuckled. “Women like a man with scars.”

“Women like a man with land, money and title,” Forsythe replied.  “None of which I have.”

Perhaps he _should_ consider the Church. Or better yet, petition the Cardinal to recommend him to the university.  Now that the war was over, and the Twilight lands taken, the King would see to reshuffling his court—marriages, alliances, the exchange of prisoners.  Untethered, Forsythe’s fate was uncertain. He still heard no word from his father.

“That may be to your advantage,” Archibald said. He looked around the tent, the bracketing torchlight chasing pensive shadows across his face, before he looked back at Forsythe, his brows furrowed. “You don’t think--you don’t think I’m being rushed into this union?”

Forsythe scoffed.

“The match may not be the most politically advantageous, but Lady Elizabeth will make a fine wife. Your father wants your happiness.”

“Does he?” Archibald huffed out a laugh and for a moment, his entire demeanor was that of a sulky child-prince. “Elizabeth and I have never courted; I haven’t even seen her or spoken to her in a decade.”

“Not nearly half as long,” Forsythe said wryly.  They spent the summers of their eighth, tenth and eleventh years at Elmhold, playing knight, princess and dragon in her grandmother’s gardens. Archibald had played the knight, Elizabeth played the princess, and Forsythe played the dragon that captured the princess and whom the knight had to slay—if he could find them.  

“And you have written letters since,” he reminded.  

“ _You_ have written letters,” Archibald pointed out. Correspondence had never been his strong suit and Forsythe often took pity to write them, with Archibald lingering bored and inattentive at his elbow.  “And it’s not the same. I haven’t held her or kissed her. I don’t even remember what she looks like.”

“Gold hair, green eyes,” Forsythe replied.  “She was a pretty thing before. No doubt she’s even prettier now. Don’t forget, her sister once caught the eye of the Prince.”

“Sisters can be as different as night and day,” Archibald said petulantly. “And besides, I don’t love her.”

Forsythe snorted.

“Don’t be stupid. This isn’t about love and you know exactly _why_ your father is anxious to see you married and there is no shortage of ambitious lady mothers at court. Whether its Lady Elizabeth or some other maiden, you _will_ be married by the end of the week.”

He paused. Several, unnameable emotions flickered and chased across Lord Archibald’s face and Forsythe once again took in the fresh tunic, the freshly shaved jaw.  Then, all the pieces of the puzzle pushed together.

Forsythe sat up.  “Archie, don’t…”

“It’s our last night,” Archibald raked a hand through his hair. “I have to go see her. I have to say one last goodbye.”

He whirled back to his cot to retrieve his cloak and sword-belt.

In what might have been one swift movement, Forsythe flew to his side to stop him.

“You’ve already said your last goodbye,” he reminded him through gritted teeth. “Each time has been your last goodbye. You will be presented before the king _and_ your betrothed tomorrow.”

“This time it **_is_** the last time,” Archibald insisted, his eyes flicking to Forsythe’s hand on his shoulder. It slid off as Archibald turned around to face him, his gaze softened with a plea. “If anyone comes looking for me--if my f _ather_ comes looking for me....”

Forsythe looked away.  “Gods, this woman has your head turned ‘round.”

“Please, Jughead,” Archibald begged, using the childhood name with affection--the funny term of endearment they always thought it was before they learned it was a pejorative instead. “I’m not asking you to understand, I’m asking you to trust me.”

“And Lady Elizabeth-- _Betty_?”

“I will do my duty; to her, to my House and to my father’s name. But tonight—I have a duty to my heart.”

Forsythe expelled a hard breath through his nose. In matters of women and whimsy, Archibald was a half-wit, but he was still his brother and despite the leaden guilt hitting the pit of his stomach like a stone, there was little he could deny him.

Turning around, he went to rifle through his trunk to remove a wool cloak the colour of devil tar. He balled it up and tossed it to Archibald. “Avoid being seen,” he warned.

Archibald breathed out a relieved smile. “Gratitude, brother.”

“Say your farewells. Tomorrow you become the man your father needs you to be.”

Sometime after Archibald had slipped off into the night and Forsythe returned to his writing desk, the candle at his elbow burning down the width of his finger, there came another visitor under the cover of darkness.  The camp had grown loud with music and voices and the clamouring of drums somewhere in the distance and Forsythe had been so engrossed in sculpting his next paragraph, he almost didn’t hear the tent flap pushed aside again.

He looked up at the sight of a familiar face—older, thinner, more elongated than it was in childhood—but familiar nonetheless.

Forsythe’s brows marched together as he stood. “Kev…”

Kevin stiffened, and then, there was a flicker of recognition.

“Jughead,” he replied. “Ah, I mean. Lord Forsythe.” The corners of his mouth then curled a little as he took a moment to sweep his gaze up and down Forsythe’s form appraisingly. “You’ve grown... taller.”

“Much to everyone’s surprise, I’m sure,” Forsythe retorted drily.

Kevin shook his head and then reached into the lapel of his jacket to produce a folded parchment.

“I have a message…”

***

“Make sure you keep her routine as regular as possible, Luca. The new surroundings are stressful enough. She enjoys a good brushing in the morning.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“Oh, and a crisp apple as a reward, for being such a good girl.”

“Of course, m’lady.”

“And be sure she is drinking and the water is not too cool—but not too warm either. Test it with your hand.”

“I will do so, m’lady.”

“Also—”

“Begging your pardon, Lady Veronica, but it is late and your mother expressly asked me to see you to bed early tonight. Your grace requires rest on account of tomorrow’s early…”

Lady Veronica spun on her heel so abruptly that the handmaiden’s face paled beneath her freckles and she fell a step back, her voice trailing off. Chancing a glance back at the groomsman, who looked equally as startled, Veronica pushed a raven lock behind her ear and composed herself, reminded that her frustration was not with her entourage tonight.

“Yes, Ethel, you are right,” she replied evenly. “We don’t want to dally too long, lest my mother catches onto our game.” Her fingers still curled inside the bridle, she turned back to the horse, reaching up with her free hand to stroke the animal’s forehead with a delicate hand. It truly was a fantastic beast, sleek and white as if cut from alabaster. “Don’t fret. We’ll tell Lady Lodge I wanted to make sure Minari was well taken care of—she **_is_** my father’s prized mare, after all. Perhaps even more prized than I.”

Placing a kiss on Minari’s velvety muzzle, Veronica patted the animal’s withers and offering a final nod at Luca, the groomsmen, swirled back toward her retinue. All the women rose at once and pulled their cape hoods up. Ethel retrieved the lantern from the doorway and the trope left the clean smell of hay and horses behind to take a clicking pace through the moon-kissed courtyard.

“If I may speak freely, My Lady,” Ethel murmured as she fell in step with Veronica. “Your father loves you dearly. Riverdale is not York, but he has done what he can to make you as comfortable as possible.”

“Ah yes, my father’s love,” Veronica sighed. “Coin and opulence is the only song he knows.”

“He’s promised you to a prince.”

“He _promised_ me to a man of my own choosing, and yet here I am, in this backwards little country needing the escort of a small army wherever I go.” She cut a glance across the cobbled yard where the great spires of the keep were silhouetted against the starry banner of the night sky and she frowned. “Meanwhile, my bridegroom sits sulking in some wretched tower, haunting its halls like a wraith.”

She’d only seen him once. His Highness, Jason Blossom, was a pale thing. Tall and willow-y, with hair as bright and orange as a maple leaf in autumn. He spoke softly, the few words he and Veronica had exchanged, and his lips were cold against the skin of her hand when he brushed them with a nothing of a kiss that propriety of introductions required. And when those blue, glassy eyes met hers for the briefest of moments, she’d shivered. He was handsome, to be sure, but it was like standing in the presence of a phantom.

His twin sister, on the other hand, was a storm. Everything about her was porcelain and red. Red. Red. Red. She’d watched Veronica with her brother with green eyes as alert as a cat at a mouse hole.

‘I cannot marry this man,’ Veronica confided in her mother in the privacy of their shared apartments later that same afternoon. ‘He frightens me and his sister looks as if she’d burn me in my own bed.’

‘He is the prince,’ Lady Hermione replied calmly, as if that surmounted everything. ‘One day, he will be king and you, his queen, and Lady Cheryl will have a husband and children of her own, as far away from the palace as you deem comfortable.’ She put a gentle hand on her daughter’s cheek and looked in her face earnestly. ‘You are shrewder than this, Veronica. This is an opportunity for our family. The gold is running out and when that happens, the Lodge name will mean nothing— _we_ will be nothing.’

‘And what has father done to arrange this match, mother?’

‘What was necessary.” Her mother lovingly pushed hair behind her ear. “And now _you_ must do what is necessary. We Lodge women must do what we can to survive. When the King returns with your father, he will give your union his blessing and you _will_ play your part.’

 _Yes. That of a conniving, plotting sycophant._  

Veronica felt her stomach churn. She’d grown weary of court life and empty extravagance; of having servants instead of friends.

But such was the price of power. Of duty. These were things that her father valued.

Once upon a time, Veronica had valued them too.

Now, they bored her.

“When you are princess, you can order him from his tower,” Ethel assured her at present. “Though when he sees you in your gown tomorrow, I dare say he will not venture too far from your side from then on.”

Veronica looked back at the keep again. Even if that were her intention, she doubted that her raven tresses and glittering, dark eyes would make much of an impression. She had no doubt in her own beauty—she saw it in the eyes of men and women alike—but she heard the rumors. Ethel likely did too; court ladies gossiped worse than kitchen maids. But in polite company (or when it suited) it was best to pretend one heard nothing of the sort.  She had already made too much of her upset with her mother and her reluctance in this marriage, and the tongues would continue their wagging in the halls and cellars. But for this, Veronica knew her mother would not scold her. It was better to play the coy lady. Eagerness never looked good on anyone.

It was merely fortunate Veronica needn’t play at the lack of it.

 _Perhaps I will talk to my father tomorrow_. _Perhaps the king will not like me and send me back home._

No, she thought rationally as they turned down the next torchlit avenue. Not even a king would risk Hiram Lodge’s anger.

She would have to figure something out on her own. Some way to make this arrangement work better to her terms. She was not accustomed to having so many decisions being made for her. Already, the pearls at her neck were beginning to feel more like a noose as she thought of the increasing expectations and the larger retinue of attendants watching her every move.

For now, however, she would allow herself to be consoled by the prospect of a new dress. Or at least, appear to be. She turned back to her lady’s companion and permitted herself a faint smile. “Is it that fine, Ethel?”

Ethel, who was the daughter of the royal dress maker and an open admirer of her lady’s fashions, sighed her relief at her lady’s lifted spirits and instantly became more animated.

“I think My Lady will be pleased,” she gushed and proceeded to describe the gown that Veronica’s mother had ordered as a deep mulberry satin, with embroidery around the collar and open shoulders, with an armor-like bodice and trailing…

But Veronica was only half-listening.

As they approached the entrance to the Golden House, there appeared to be a small commotion happening at the gate. One of the sentries was interrogating a hooded girl who kept her head bowed and looking aside, while the other guard on duty looked on, amused. The girl said something and made to move past them, but the first guard gripped her by the elbow and hauled her back rough enough to have the girl cry out.  

Veronica immediately sped up her pace, ignoring Ethel’s hurried whisper of protest.  

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded of the man, sweeping in before them. “You’re hurting this girl. Unhand her at once.”

Both guards and the girl glanced up at the intrusion. Part of the girl’s hood hung over half of her face, revealing a smoothly curved cheek and one very round, very frightened eye.

The sentry who held the girl seemed to hesitate, before drawing himself up again proudly. “No one is permitted outside the Guest Apartments at night without his Lord or Ladies’ express permission.”

“This girl is _my_ attendant,” Veronica replied imperiously. “I, Lady Veronica Lodge, give permission. I say, release her.”

Reluctantly, the guard complied and the girl stumbled over to Veronica’s side. The other man on duty, however, narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“She did not mention your name,” he said.  

“Because you frightened her out of her wits,” Veronica snapped, annoyed with his lack of deference. “In York, the men are not half so barbaric.”

Ethel stepped beside her. “Why are your hands at your sides?” she asked. “The Lady has told you who she is.”

Immediately, both men brought their hands up to their opposite shoulders in the attitude of attention and Veronica curled her lip in satisfaction. “Better. Now, stay there, as we consult with the poor maid you’d so boorishly threatened and I’ll think about not reporting you to your captain.”

“Thank you,” whispered the girl when she, Veronica and Ethel walked a bit away from the gate and the rest of the whispering retinue of ladies to converse in private. A few blonde curls escaped her hood and she pulled her cloak about herself nervously, trying to sink deeper into the shadows of the mantle.

“What is your name?” Veronica wanted to know.

The girl hesitated. “Betty…um, My Lady.”

Veronica cocked her head to one side curiously.  A girl of upper class judging by her manner and accent alone, though she was clearly trying to pass as a girl of lower station.

“What were you doing outside of the house gate?” she asked. “God knows, I think it’s silly too, but you shouldn’t be out skulking at night without a chaperone.”

“I—I was trying to—my uh, brother is very sick and I was wanting to go see him.”

An obvious lie, but even though it was dark and it was only the faintest impression, Veronica thought the girl looked vaguely familiar.

“This is the gate to the garden and the stables,” Ethel said. “Perhaps you meant to take the one east of here?”

“Oh, um…”

“It’s fine,” Veronica interrupted before Betty could hastily invent another excuse, the romantic in her putting two and two together. “Let’s not keep the girl from her ailing _brother._ I’m sure she knows the way from here.”  She slanted a look at Ethel and then smiled at the girl. “Give my name at the gate when you return. I will vouch for your story.”

Betty bit her lip. “Yes, uh, thank you… My Lady.”

She hesitated again and then signed an awkward attitude of dismissal, before scuffling away, casting anxious looks over her shoulder as she did so. Veronica watched her turn and disappear down the avenue, before turning back to Ethel who regarded her questioningly.

“Should we have not sent one of our women with her, My Lady?”

“I think she preferred to go alone,” Veronica said, taking gleeful pleasure out of the sentries scuffling to show their respects as they approached. “Now come, finish telling me about this dress…”

**

Out in the garden, the white and pink roses swayed gently in the night breeze. A few petals shook loose from their moorings and flew recklessly up and down, turning somersaults in the air as they drifted towards where Lady Elizabeth crept through arbor at the entrance of the palatial gardens. She paused before the lotus pools, looking left and then right, before scuttling along the hedge walls, safe from moonbeams and the soft glow of garden lanterns.

Her heart was still beating fast from her encounter at the Golden House gate, fearing she’d been recognized by the sentry—and then Lady Lodge. She wasn’t sure which would haven proven more disastrous. She knew neither of them, but had no doubt that should she had been discovered, her indiscretion would’ve been the talk of the palace by the morning and she would have to explain to her mother how she’d given her tea to the maid and slipped out as soon as she was asleep.

The danger, however, would’ve been worth it if she’d get to see Archie for a moment. A small vestige of their shared summer in childhood, slipping out of their rooms at night and creeping up to the tower to watch the stars. She, Archie, Jughead and Polly. She knew that he remembered and she was sure he would come as soon as he got her note.

Behind her, the rose bushes rustled and Elizabeth turned. “Archie?” she whispered, but it was only a night dove, startled from its roost by her sudden movement. As her eyes followed its arc of flight toward the moon, however, a black gloved hand fell over her mouth and in the next instant, she was pulled into the shadows.

The night breeze carried a few more petals to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where everyone is on a midnight rendezvous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to createandconstruct for looking this over and cheering me on as always :)

“Betty,” someone whispered in her ear. “It’s just me. Don’t scream.”

The masculine voice was unfamiliar, but there were only three people in the world who knew her by that name and only one of which she was expecting. She had not heard him speak in years.  He sounded so handsome. 

Her heart fluttering, she nodded to show she understood and as soon as gloved hand dropped away from her mouth, she sighed, "Archie!" and whirled in his arms. Half his face was obscured by a hood and his lips parted as if to respond, but she did not give him the opportunity. Flinging an arm around his neck, she pulled him down and set her mouth against his in a sweet, greeting kiss.

It was utterly perfect. A kiss for the songs. Her heart skipped a beat. The moon gleamed behind them, the night infused with the perfumes of the gardens and a sinfonia of insects. He was so warm, so comforting and solid against her, she would have gone back for another embrace if only she was so bold.

When she pulled away, Archie let out a soft grunt and licked his lips. "It’s good to see you too, Princess.”

No, not Archie.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Reaching up, she tore the hood aside and, to her horror, instead of red hair, freckles, and warm brown eyes, she was greeted by dark hair, light eyes and a smile as sharp as an arrowhead. 

He was older, taller, broader from the sullen boy who rode off to war, all knees and elbows, but she recognized him all the same.

“Jughead,” she gasped and then, reacting on an impulse she scarcely understood, she slapped him.

“Ow,” he protested, rubbing his cheek. Elizabeth shoved him for good measure before throwing her arms around him again and pulling him into a fierce hug.

Jughead—no Forsythe—huffed in surprise but his arms fell around her waist and he returned her embrace all the same. 

“I don’t understand women,” he muttered. 

Clutching a fistful of his inky cloak, Elizabeth grinned into his shoulder. He still smelled the same, if that was possible. Beneath the leather, the smoke and something metallic, there was _Jughead,_  and she was instantly hurled back five years in time. 

"There’s a hardened river of wax on every altar, for all the candles we burned," she told him earnestly, tears prickling in her eyes from the fierce surge of affection for her old playmate. "We prayed every day for a swift and bloodless victory."

“ _Bloodless_ it was not,” he told her, and when she looked up at him with a furrowed brow, he hastily added: “But aye, it was a victory.”

Elizabeth nodded. There were so many things she wanted to ask. About Serpentmen, about his father, but there was something in his expression that suddenly made her aware that she was still clinging to him like an overly amorous milkmaid. Her cheeks warming, she pulled away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Forsythe frowned at her. “What are you doing out here throwing yourself at strange men in the dark?”

“I wasn’t _throwing_ myself—” she started and then, realizing her voice had climbed higher than she intended, threw a wild glance around to garden to see if anyone heard and immediately lowered it into a hiss. “I thought you were my husband-to-be.”

“I gathered as much,” Forsythe said. “But stupid all the same. Your sister’s reputation is tarnished from here to Beacon Hill and you're arranging late night larks in the garden. What was Kevin thinking agreeing to any of this?”

“Kevin is not my keeper, and neither are you. Where is Archie?”

His eyes flicked away from hers and Elizabeth felt a chill slip between her shoulder blades and she grasped Forsythe by the arm. “Is he hurt?" 

“No," Forsythe grimaced. “Still a knight in shining armor and not a single dent on his plate. He’s been unfortunately...detained. He sent me in his place.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth's heart sank. She wondered what could keep Archie from taking a chance to see her again. All those letters he'd written. She thought he'd find this just as wickedly romantic. 

She didn't realize she'd grasped Forsythe on the arm until he pulled free of her, rubbing the spot. 

“Gods, you have a grip,” he complained, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. “Still practicing with your sword? I thought Lady Alice would have traded you a needle by now.”

She was about to snip back a reply but Forsythe’s grin suddenly faltered and his eyes left hers, flicking over her shoulder toward the entrance.  She turned to follow his gaze, but he flipped her hood back over her head—momentarily obscuring her vision—and ignoring her muffled noise of protest, dragged her further into the shadows of the loggia off the summer house. Vines clambered thick around the columns and the walls, and its open front faced a little away from the gate, so that once inside it, they could see without being seen.  

Lifting the hem of her hood, Elizabeth smacked his arm and swiveled in place to peer around the column, his body warm at her back.

The latch of the gate knocked close and two figures, swathed in blues and whites, entered the garden. Fireflies flit here and there around the flowers and acacia trees, and in the bright silver light of the moon, the pair’s red hair flared red as flame.

“It’s the royal twins,” Forsythe murmured into her hair, as if Elizabeth couldn’t see for herself.

Her fingers pressed into the stone and her heartbeat quickened. “They’re heading this way,” she whispered back in alarm.

Silent as a shadow, Forsythe drew her back against him as the twins began walk toward them. As the pair entered the loggia, some three arches away, Elizabeth had to admire how swiftly and silently Forsythe manoeuvred the two of them around the column, the ends of his cloak moving like a curtain about them. It’d been some time since he’d played a princess-hiding dragon from their childhood game, but he’d since become well-practised.  He pressed her against one of the pillars and covered her body with his own. She raised an eyebrow. He pressed a finger to his lips in response.

“… You must at least consider _speaking_ with father,” Princess Cheryl was saying. There was a vulnerability in her voice that was at odds with the fierce and volatile pride she projected at court.

Her brother sounded weary, tired, his voice soft as a feather. Despite everything that she knew about Jason from her sister and the rambling letters she’d written describing every hair and freckle, Elizabeth realized it was the first time she heard him speak.  “We’ve said enough to one another already, Cher. There is no changing his mind.”

“Once more. Just once,” Cheryl pleaded. “This plan you have is madness—I will not help you if you don’t at least give it one more try...”

“Cheryl—”

“ _Please,_ brother.”

She moved as if to kiss him, but Jason put her hands on his sister’s shoulders and gently set some distance between them.

“I love her, Cher,” he told her seriously. “I hope one day you find a love just as great, so you can understand why I must do this.”

“I do. I do understand.” Cheryl placed her hand on his, pressing her cheek into his palm longingly. “But I cannot bear the thought to be parted from you. I’d like to think that if there’s even the smallest chance that you could avoid being parted from me, you’d take it.”

Jason hesitated at this.

“All right, tomorrow,” he relented with a sigh. “I’ll talk to father tomorrow. But if he says what I know he will say…”

He reached inside the pocket of his coat and withdrew a parchment, handing it to her. Cheryl’s expression broke.

“I will follow your instructions,” she promised sadly, accepting the folded note. “I will do as you ask and I will carry your secret to my grave.”

“It won’t be good bye. I will find some way to contact you.”

“See that you do or I would never forgive you.”

“No, I can’t have my dear sister mad at me.” He smiled down at her fondly. “Come, I’ll show you where the provisions are.”

“Jason—”

“—Just in case, Cher.”

He held out his arm and motioned his sister inside the summer house.  As soon as they disappeared inside, Forsythe and Elizabeth detached themselves from the column and Elizabeth blew out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. It felt wrong to have intruded on such a private moment, but her mind was whirling with the implications of what they’d heard.

“Quick,” Forsythe whispered before she could say anything. “We have to get out of here before they come back.”

Wrapping a fold of her cloak over her head and the lower part of her face, Elizabeth nodded and allowed him to take her hand and hurry them out of the loggia, past the lotus fountains and along the hedge wall before slipping through the rose arbor and out the gate.

“I think they were talking about Pauline,” she said once they were on the other side of the wall. They stood in its shadow and it was dark here, the moon spilling out onto the cobbled courtyard beyond. “I think he means to run away with her.”

“I heard,” Forsythe replied. “He’s a bored little princeling with romantic notions. He will be cured of it soon enough.” He tugged on her hand. “Come, let’s get you back to your apartments.”

But Elizabeth did not move. “My sister is _not_ a romantic notion,” she argued.

Forsythe sighed and tugged on her hand again.

“That’s _not_ what I meant. He would be a fool to run away. The realm is finally stabilized and there are lives at stake. Robbing King Clifford of his heir would only plunge the country into another civil war.”

“Then, should we do something?”

“And what would we do? What would we say? How would we explain how we know what we know without shaming you or implicating me?” Forsythe shook his head. “Whatever a prince wants to do, he will do. Whether we interfere or not, there will be consequences—I would think your family is an object lesson in crossing the royal whims of the Blossoms.”

“If this concerns Polly—”

“You don’t know that, Betty. Leave it be.”

They fell into a sullen silence and for a while, there was no sound but their breathing and the shuffle of their footsteps. It occurred to her that Forsythe was taking them down some other avenue, different from the one from whence she came. And even though it had been five years since she’d seen him last and it was dark and she was stumbling over nothing, she trusted him completely.

But her mind was still troubled with thoughts of her sister and the prince. She knew the two had fallen in love the summer their mother had sent Pauline to court and that the royal family had disapproved of the match. By winter, Pauline was sent away and both her parents were wont to pretend they never had another daughter at all.

Had Jason forgotten too? It _would be_ just that after all he’d cost her and her family, he’d at least still be in love with her.

_It doesn’t matter. Whatever he thinks—whatever he aims to do—he will never find my sister. Mother has made sure of that._

“Kevin said you are staying in the west wing of Golden House.” Forsythe broke through her thoughts. “Do you remember which is your room?”

“The second floor, overlooking the chapel,” Elizabeth replied, and then frowned. They had stopped walking and were now staring at a stone wall. Forsythe jumped up using his hands and scampered up onto a catch and then bent down to extend his hand to her next. Hesitant, she accepted it and he hoisted her up to meet him, momentarily pressing them chest to chest—and when she turned her head, almost nose to nose.

He cleared his throat and manoeuvred them around so that she stood behind him. “On my back,” he instructed.

Elizabeth blinked in confusion and then grinned. “Still climbing like a squirrel,” she teased.

“Or like a serpent, as the men tell me,” Forsythe responded dryly. “How do you think I got into the palace? Those corpses at the gate are accustomed to looking ahead, not up.”

She obliged him, climbing up onto his back and smacking him on the shoulder when he pretended, for a moment, to stagger under her weight. He tossed her a grin and once more, she was struck by how much larger he was than she remembered. How much stronger. She’d been almost a head taller that last summer they saw one another five years before. Now it was the opposite; he towered over her.

“Hold on,” Forsythe rumbled and Elizabeth locked her arms around his neck, her nose buried into his shoulder, thinking of how wickedly romantic this would be under different circumstances—scaling a tower to get to her window.

Or more accurately, scaling a short building from the chapel roof. She’d barely been able to get her bearings of where they were, what they were doing, because in a few quick stretches and movements that clambered them higher and higher, Forsythe was flipping them over the balustrade, cloak flaring behind him like a banner, and Elizabeth was on her feet before the entrance into her bedroom.

She turned toward him and blinked. “Should I be concerned that my balcony is so easily accessible?”

Forsythe flipped back his hood to run a hand through unruly, black hair. “Perhaps, if you were someone of importance.”  He dodged a swipe and grinned, wagging his finger at her. “Remember, you have to pretend you’re seeing me for the first time tomorrow.”

“Yes, well, I won’t be kissing you again,” Elizabeth told him smartly, folding her arms.

His smile turned sharper. “I wouldn’t recommend it. You are to be a married woman soon.”

A cool wind chose that moment to slide past them, ruffling their hair and cloaks, shaking loose a rose petal from Elizabeth’s hair that had hitched a ride from the garden. It fluttered onto Forsythe’s shoulder, clinging to the fabric of his cloak. Elizabeth reached out a hand to brush it aside.

“Thank you, Juggie.” She smiled softly. “You will give Archie my regards?”

“You can give them yourself personally, when you see him tomorrow.” He put two fingers to his forehead to salute and winked. “Have a good night, Princess.”

At that, she watched him vault over the balcony and she followed to the balustrade, watching as he completed a leap back onto the chapel roof and then slid down the slope, before disappearing in the shadows. Biting her lip and shaking her head, Elizabeth returned to her room. She scarcely made in a few steps, still smiling, when she stopped short.

Lady Cooper was waiting for her, laid out on the divan like a predatory cat, swirling a goblet of wine in her hands.

**

Forsythe could still smell Elizabeth’s perfume on him by the time he returned to camp. It was floral and sickly sweet and made his stomach flip oddly at the thought of her clinging to him, warm against his back.  He told himself it was merely a gladness of seeing her well. She had blossomed into a beautiful woman and in a few days time, he reminded himself that she would be Archibald’s wife.

The moon was in the middle of the sky and the revelry of camp had died down, most of the men having returned to their tents to pass out or entertain a special kind of company. A few sat around dwindling camp fires drinking, engaged in murmuring conversations. Some of them openly whispered to one another about him as he passed. He was accustomed to this. When sober, they were only slightly more discrete.

He was anticipating Archie to be in bed by this hour. The squires had been instructed to rouse them at daybreak and to begin packing up the camp before entering the city at noon. What he wasn’t anticipating was walking into the tent and being met with Archie’s naked backside.  Forsythe immediately threw up a hand to his eyes and turned away.

“Damn it all,” he muttered. “Cover yourself, man.”

“Jug!” Archie exclaimed. There was a rustle of buckles and clothing as he made haste to dress. “I wasn’t expecting you back tonight.”

“Where the devil would I go?” Forsythe wondered. He turned around and froze. Now that Archie had moved out of the way, he could see the woman sitting in Archie’s bed. Her face was unmarked, but she was obviously older than the both Forsythe and Archibald, the shape of her jaw more angular, her cheeks sculpted with age. Her long, brown hair was falling over her naked shoulders as she clutched the furs and cottons to her chest.

It was the woman from the mummer’s band. The woman playwright.  She cowered under his glare, like a mouse threatened with a broom.

Forsythe’s insides turned to ice and his gaze snapped to meet Archie’s.

“What is _she_ doing here?”

Archibald swallowed hard.

“She… Geraldine…She is my wife.”

**Author's Note:**

> The muse is back :)
> 
> A little different from my usual fair but I hope you enjoy. Any comments or feedback always welcome and appreciated.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: @raptorlily


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